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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26533075">Lifelines</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chopsticks/pseuds/Chopsticks'>Chopsticks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Love Hotels, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Overwatch 2, Secret Identity, Sexual Content, Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Undercover Missions, Young Hanzo Shimada, Young Jesse McCree, to post-Zero Hour</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:55:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26533075</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chopsticks/pseuds/Chopsticks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In theory, McCree thought it an easy enough job: go undercover, meet the yakuza informant, leave a convincing trail of a love affair for eyes that track. Nothing to it. Until said informant had to go and make him feel something real. For far too many years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>186</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lifelines</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A heartfelt thank you to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/chambermusic">chambermusic</a> for all the support and insights!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time they met at a love hotel was in Kyoto. </p><p>Twenty hundred hours on the dot, McCree keyed open the suite door to find Arashi already waiting within. The man was a striking anachronism to the rococo decor; his black suit cut a sharp relief on the cream sofa, his socked feet an imperious prop over the marble coffee table as he leafed a magazine flaunting women dressed only in fonts. He was young. Too young for the tired salaryman getup that failed to age his smooth skin and sleek ponytail. Too young, McCree thought, to have been doing this for over four years. Arashi couldn’t have been older than McCree himself. Twenty-one, twenty-two at most. McCree wondered if he had the wrong room.</p><p>The mag clapped shut as Arashi looked up and stood. His dark gaze turned to a frown behind rectangular glasses.</p><p>"Hey there," McCree started. "Did you order room service yet? Tell me they have ham and pineapple pizza."</p><p>"No. There is okonomiyaki, if you are not particular."</p><p>McCree breathed a silent sigh of relief. Point one, check. He dropped the hotel keycard on the coffee table and offered his hand. </p><p>"Huckleberry," said McCree.</p><p>"Arashi." The frown deepened. The other man made no move to shake. "I had specifically requested a female agent."</p><p>McCree forced a terse smile as his hand limped. Things were clearly off to a solid start. "Sojourn scored herself a promotion since the last time. She's in the big leagues now. She briefed me. I don't see how it matters that I'm not female, since we're not actually here for…" He waved at the loveseat, the jacuzzi, the four-poster bed. "The amenities."</p><p>"It <em> matters. </em> More than you can conceive," Arashi replied, accented English pitched a low growl. He paced away, arms crossed, to a high-def wall of a cascading fountain, the rigor of his body a stark foreground to the marble cherubs. "This hotel does not permit same-sex couples. Shocking to an ignorant gaijin, perhaps. But such is the common restriction here. We draw attention. Our entries to this room are on closed circuit video. You have compromised today's meeting and any future chance of us using this audited space."</p><p>Stomach swooping to the floor, McCree grimaced at Arashi's rigid back. He fretted a ball of lint in his blazer pocket, itching for smokes that weren't there. </p><p>"Fuck. I'm sorry," he mustered after an abashed silence. "I didn't know. Well, Overwatch didn't know. About the hotel rules. I was assigned by proximity, a hop from Seoul, when your ping came through." It was a small white lie to misdirect how green he was to this. The truth was Overwatch had been short on deployable agents and Reyes figured McCree suited the low-risk intelligence mission to wet his feet, but he wasn't about to admit that much to an outside contact who loathed him already. So much for an easy first solo assignment. "What do we do now?"</p><p>Arashi made an exasperated sound between grit teeth. "We stay. The plan proceeds. The room is booked for two hours. I will handle things with hotel management after." He shot McCree a flinty glare over his shoulder. "You and your organization will heed my requests from now. Otherwise, we cut ties altogether."</p><p>"Within reason, sure."</p><p>Arashi stalked back to perch on the sofa. He picked up a briefcase from the table and unlocked it on his lap. From the clutter of nondescript notebooks and folios, he produced an Overwatch-issue A4 holo. Its retina scanner swept past his glasses lens, across his left eye. The screen lit up blue. Arashi held it out towards McCree, all business.</p><p>"Sojourn's holopad, returned to you."</p><p>"Thanks." McCree took the holo and sat down in a winged armchair, fingers tapping to override Arashi's access profile with administrator code. A solitary file titled <em> Daikon </em> glowed bright on the home screen.</p><p>McCree felt sharp eyes on him as he scanned through the updated dossier. The more he scrolled, the more his jitters took backseat to a rising repulsion. </p><p>"Goddamn. This is…"</p><p>"You understand my urgency," said Arashi, "when I called for the meeting."</p><p>McCree bit his lip, nauseated. His mouth soured acrid at the compilation of images on the screen. A lab-white, windowless factory. Long storage lines of deactivated, fifth-gen omnic skeletons strung from the ceiling like slaughterhouse pork. Somewhere within the same fluorescent facility, headless, human mannequins — no, <em> sex dolls </em> — female and male both, in various stages of manufacture, limbs ragdoll limp, their fleshy torsos surgically gutted to house Omnica Corp-stamped heart cores. His fears were only confirmed by the unsparing summary report on the last page. Lifelike sex dolls given to slavery with sentience. The succinct, vetting signatory of all of the above: <em> A. </em></p><p>Arashi’s snappishness allayed, becoming mutual disgust. “Hassaku-kai moves quickly. First rumours of this project came to me only two weeks ago when the kumicho and his eldest daughter sold full stakes in prominent pharmaceutical stocks. Necessary cash for reinvestment. This venture with Omnica Corporation will reward them one thousand-fold within the year, if left unchecked.”</p><p>“God,” McCree breathed, voice shaking. “After Sojourn’s rundown I expected more yakuza-headed gun smuggling. Not this.”</p><p>"I did not believe it myself until I had the photos."</p><p>McCree swiped back to the most damning image: a technician completing core installation on a supine female body while the tattooed hand of a yakuza brass probed between her legs. Her eyes were already blue-bright with life. Her expression knotted, distressed.</p><p>Arashi was standing beside the armchair now. His low voice came over McCree's shoulder. "Frog and carp. The tattoo marks him as a wagashira of Hassuka-kai. A top lieutenant, as equivalent.” At Arashi's comment, McCree double-tapped the image to zoom in on the detail. “There is no mistaking the affiliation."</p><p>McCree looked up at him. Arashi appeared even younger up close. Pale, poreless, and a mismatched softness; he had no trace of stubble, as though freshly shaven. McCree blinked, catching himself from looking too long. Eye contact was simpler. "I believe you. How are you even… How do you have this much intel at all? Isn’t this a rival clan? How in the world did you get close enough?"</p><p>Rectangular glasses nudged up the slope of his nose. Dark eyes met McCree’s without qualm. "I would need to kill you to tell you. Rest assured that I was not there and that I have no part in this atrocity. Shimada-gumi has always had my sole allegiance."</p><p>"Except for when you double as an informant for us. Our guy among Japan’s criminal underground."</p><p>"Except for that," Arashi conceded, lips tilting.</p><p>McCree flicked the screen back to Arashi's report — a masterclass in brevity yet lacking no detail. </p><p>"I hope the others have tried to recruit you before," said McCree. "Hell, I know you'd have a place in Overwatch if you ever decide to leave your gang. We could use someone like you."</p><p>Arashi stiffened. He moved away, back to his couch. "The yakuza are more than a gang. They are family. A dynasty, by brotherhood or by blood. One does not leave. I would not expect someone like you to understand.”</p><p>“Yeah. I’m sure I don’t,” McCree muttered, thinking of the inked skull and wings on his left forearm.  No longer a point of pride, but a proof of volition. He shot down a stray notion of rolling up his sleeves to make a statement. “Anyway. This is a motherlode of info. Couldn’t have been a straightforward thing to get. We appreciate it. Do the Shimada clan higher-ups also have this intel?”</p><p>There was a stilted pause. “No,” said Arashi. “They don’t.” </p><p>“Any reason you’re keeping them in the dark? Since you're still loyal to them and all. If you took major risks to compile this stuff, Overwatch could offer you—”</p><p>“I don’t need your protection,” Arashi interrupted, as though the suggestion offended. “And the Shimada-gumi must not know of this factory. No clan may. You think these men virtuous enough to resist certain power and wealth? Impossible. Any clan that moves on Hassaku-kai will only duplicate the operation. An exchange of bank routing numbers, solving nothing. I trust no-one but Overwatch to remain faithful to ending this.”</p><p>“Alright. I get it.” McCree powered down the holo, tucked it into his blazer's inside pocket. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll get the dossier to HQ as soon as I secure a connection.”</p><p>“Do not strike before we meet a second time,” Arashi added, crossing his arms as he leaned into the backrest. “I expect vital information within the week. Hassaku Ayeka, the eldest daughter and puppeteer of Hassaku-kai enterprises, has been spotted in Fukuoka. A satellite facility is a strong possibility. Anything less than a simultaneous, complete strike would be worthless. A many-headed snake, regrowing heads."</p><p>McCree nodded. "Noted. I'll wait for your word while our team gets planning." He reached into his jacket for a blank burner phone, but Arashi gestured a dismissal before McCree could pass it over.</p><p>"No. No more phones, holopads, devices from Overwatch. Not until…" Arashi hesitated — a first. His gaze flitted around the room as though casting focus for his thoughts. "Not for the foreseeable future. Shimada-gumi is in a time of internal tension. There are eyes everywhere, keener than ever."</p><p>"Did something happen?" asked McCree.</p><p>Arashi laughed, brusque and bitter. "Does Overwatch not train its recruits or have you not done this before? Any cursory research would have told you all that you—"</p><p>“Can you just answer the question?” McCree blurted, vexed at the slight and not for the first time in the span of minutes. McCree may be new to this, but he wasn’t about to prove a pushover to Arashi’s barbs. “I get it. You don’t like me. You won’t have to see me again when all this is said and done. If it’s public knowledge, then just tell me. What happened?”</p><p>Arashi bit his lip, then stated tightly, "Shimada Sojiro passed away. Fifteen days ago.”</p><p>Commiseration doused McCree’s irritation like cold water. “Oh... I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Do not say sorry to me unless you know what for.”</p><p>“I understand that he’s your kumicho. Your leader. Isn’t he? Er… was your leader. Sorry."</p><p>The other man let out a noisy exhale but did not reply. He was looking away again, face turned to the placidly looping fountain wall, the angle hiding his expression. Ambient sounds of trickling water only amplified the stillness, the ringing hollowness of condolences for a stranger who wanted none from McCree. Arashi was right. McCree did not know him enough to understand and could not know him under oath of anonymity. After their time was up, Huckleberry and Arashi would not exist. McCree and his yakuza informant were never here.</p><p>They had two hours, McCree remembered, dread prickling. Or something close to it. Whatever amount of time deemed believable for a weeknight tryst to fool hallway security recordings and a hypothetical audience. It was a hell of a lot of time to kill, company considered. Restless, McCree arpeggiated fingertips on an armrest, tempo matched to the blinking dot-dot of a nightstand clock. Five minutes passed when he heard the millisecond stutter of the background track. An imperfect sound loop, asynchronous with the video wall; shadows cast by the filmed sculptures glitched a trace shorter fourteen seconds later.</p><p>This Arashi seemed to notice as well. He stirred as though peeved, shifting, creaking the couch. His hands dropped back to his suitcase. Toyed with its silver lock. Then flipped it open, swift with decision. He took out a small, paper notepad and a ballpoint pen, wrote down a single neat line, then tore out the page. </p><p>“Obtain a new phone from a local store by tomorrow,” Arashi said, holding the piece of notepaper to McCree. Ten digits — a phone number. “Send a message mentioning your pineapple pizza. I will know. The story remains that we are casual lovers, you an American tourist, leaving within the month. Text only. No calls. No names. No references to today. Stay within Honshu, the main island, if possible. I will find a room at a different place. I do not know how soon I can meet when I receive further intelligence. Short notice may be necessary.”</p><p>McCree read the number three times and folded the page before tucking it into his jacket between his chest and the holo. “A week, I can do. Anything longer, if you still have nothing new—”</p><p>“A week, at most, is all I require. I will not keep you indefinitely,” assured Arashi, his eyes bright with purpose. “Hassaku-kai will not idle. I know what is at stake.”</p><p>“Alright.” McCree paused, then pointed a finger. “Wait just a sec. The cover story. The lovers’ thing is to pull wool over the eyes of hotel staff. In texts, if a phone's compromised, it would make more sense if it looked like I were a friend, an acquaintance, a business associate...”</p><p>“None of whom I would meet alone in a hotel. As I said, eyes are everywhere. These days in particular. I am accounting for the worst, projecting the believable, if the eyes should follow.”</p><p>The layers of consideration made McCree wonder from whom Arashi would earn such scrutiny. Best not to know, at any rate. But something still wasn't right. A different realization struck McCree then, the obvious meaning of Arashi's words sinking in. His heartbeat drummed heavy against the folded phone number at his chest, bewildered.</p><p>McCree stood. "I'm gonna use the toilet."</p><p>"Start the shower, while you are there," Arashi's voice chased as McCree began to make for the bathroom.</p><p>"Start the..." McCree felt heat spread up his neck. "I don't need a shower."</p><p>"Not for you. It is for me."</p><p>"Start your own damn showers after I'm done," McCree managed to retort, louder than intended. </p><p>Arashi's eyebrows raised. He spoke what sounded like a biting expletive in Japanese. "You really have not done this before. One minute ago you talked of — what is the saying? Pulling wool over eyes. Who do you think suffers if we leave the room unused, clean? Not you and your fleeting reputation in this country. Suspicion endangers <em> me. </em> Before we leave, the room must appear as though our time wasn't spent sitting on chairs. Use common sense, unless..." Arashi cocked his head, mocking, ponytail brushing to his shoulder. "Unless your inexperience extends to what couples do in private."</p><p>"That part I don't need to learn on the job, thanks," McCree muttered. He turned his back to the other man and strode to the bathroom. The door thud shut behind him. </p><p>Alone, McCree planted palms flat upon the counter and took a composing breath. The mirror above the sink reassured that his tan hid his flush. For the most part. He was being ridiculous. Newness aside, McCree was an Overwatch agent. A professional. He shook his head, clearing the cling of confusion. He used the toilet, washed his hands, turned on the detachable showerhead. A brisk jet wet the shower bench and tiled floor, soaking his socks. Cursing, he stripped them off and rolled his slacks up mid-shin. From a tray of toiletries he lathered an oval of soap, emptied half a bottle of body wash, bubbled down the floor drain a dollop of shampoo. Two condoms lost their packaging, stretched loose over his fingers and turned outside-in before they fell to the plastic liner of the trash bin. Several pumps of lubricant washed into the sink for good measure. </p><p>Nothing weird about this, McCree told himself with a wry look at the mirror, now fogged from supposed post-coital showers and a few condoms’ worth of further fucking. The other agents must have done the same cover-up countless times straight-faced. Nothing weird about it at all. Even if it was apparently within character for Arashi to visit hotels with men. Even if McCree could say the same.</p><p>He exited the bathroom in a haze of steam. Arashi glanced across the room from where he was manufacturing a mess of pillows and bedsheets. His eyes slid down to McCree's bare feet. McCree knew how stupid he looked, slacks still rolled up, damp socks pinched in one hand, feet tracking moisture.</p><p>"Slippers are customary and for your own comfort," Arashi said. "For future reference."</p><p>"Appreciate the forewarning." McCree dropped back into the armchair to toe down the legs of his pants. A scatter of opened, square wrappers decorated the coffee table. More breadcrumbs for housekeeping. Adding to the ones in the bathroom, their condom count already tallied seven. He chuckled, finding consolation in comedy. "A bit blatant, ain't it? Want me to bin the trash?"</p><p>Arashi followed his gaze. "No. It looks more authentic this way. Considering your type."</p><p>"My <em> type?" </em></p><p>"An image for an image. People will see what they expect to see," Arashi supplied. As though that explained things. "My cover is most at stake. I make the call on appearances."</p><p>McCree didn’t know what to say or think, speechless at the bullshit logic and the imagination transpired to typecast him. At the other end of the room, several tissues swept out from their dispenser in succession. Another foil wrapper crinkled, then tore. Groaning, McCree rubbed his face with both hands.</p><p>"Your call, sure. But it paints a completely overblown picture on my part. For the record."</p><p>Arashi didn't look over from the four-poster, but McCree caught the subtle turn of his lips in profile. A blue moon smile.</p><p>"Illuminating. Perhaps you should clarify your account on the official record, then, Huckleberry-san. You have forty-five minutes left here to do work."</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>The second time they went to a love hotel was in Nagoya. </p><p>True to his word, Arashi's intel hadn't warranted a full week's wait. Notice for a rendezvous came midday, day five at the haptic hum of McCree's new phone: one unread message from the pre-programmed ID, <em>Loverboy. </em> The moniker lighting the screen sent a nervous twist through McCree's gut for reasons he hoped had everything to do with the mission. But no such luck. Unlocking the phone to read "Loverboy's" text had McCree immediately choking on a mouthful of soupy ramen. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [12:23]  I want to fuck. Are you free tonight? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Glad for the walls of his narrow booth, McCree finished coughing in privacy and wiped his mouth on a paper napkin.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [12:25]  sure thing sugar. just tell me when and where </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Arashi's response was instantaneous. 7:30 PM. An address in an entertainment district in Nagoya, walking distance from a rail station. A map search approximated McCree's travel time to be about two hours from central Osaka. Easy enough, with time to spare. Before McCree could send off a confirmation, two more messages buzzed into the chat strata.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [12:29]  Wear the tight jeans that you know I like. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [12:29]  ;) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>McCree couldn't help but snort a laugh at the winky face, picturing the antithetic scowling it required someone like Arashi to type it. Between the lines, the message indicated a dress code: trendy, casual. A different neighborhood tonight. A different getup to match.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [12:31]  how can i refuse </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [12:32]  since it gets u stripping them off me quicker </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [12:34]  No.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [12:34]  You will strip yourself while I watch.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [12:34]   :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>McCree set his chopsticks down. Grinned back. </p><p>“Mother<em>fucker...” </em> </p><p>No more texts followed and McCree had no comeback. The last line had him pondering on the hypertrain to Nagoya if Arashi channelled oddball personas or if he really was that adorable, more apt to emote by emoji than he would in person. The idea lingered along his GPS plot through Nagoya's glittering twilight, down streets too narrow for hovercars and marqueed instead by foot traffic and neon spectrums of advertising. The address led McCree to a hole-in-the-wall, so nondescript it was between two busy restaurants that he almost walked past it. A dark, wooden door. A single round window, red paper lanterns bobbing behind the glass with antigrav. McCree entered, triggering a birdsong bell. </p><p>It was a small, dim izakaya. A host guided him to a table already set with a carafe, two cups, and an ashtray. McCree slid into the booth, shoulder bumping the man on his left.</p><p>"Don't suppose ham and pineapple pizza goes well with your sake?" </p><p>Arashi pulled the cigarette from his lips to reply. "No need for that. I can hardly mistake the sight of you."</p><p>"Maybe it's all to reassure myself. You look like another person."</p><p>The statement was no exaggeration. Arashi had his hair loose today, an inky drape down his back. A lock looped behind his right ear to reveal three piercings. No more glasses. His outfit looked like something out of a rock band billboard McCree passed on the walk here, all snug black leather and steel hardware. When Arashi leaned into him, McCree smelled smoke and cedar.</p><p>"I am being surveilled," Arashi said, his warm breath in McCree’s ear. "Ten o'clock, dark blue shirt. I just whispered something lewd in greeting. Smile. Take this cigarette. Look your part."</p><p>"Uh huh." McCree steadied an aimless gaze straight ahead, noting the peripheral figure in blue. He swiped the cigarette as told and took a deep drag, arm sliding around Arashi's waist. "Any cause for concern?" he mumbled, exhaling smoke over their table.</p><p>Arashi poured them two shots. "None. A clan elder's nameless pawn, unlikely to engage. He seeks to verify my schedule. Nothing more. We will drink, smoke, and retire to the rabuho one street north. He will leave us by then."</p><p>"You're the boss. But why not just start at the hotel, like the last time?"</p><p>A server approached, holopad in hand. Arashi spoke to her in brisk Japanese and she retreated at once, bowing, apologetic. He sipped once from his cup before switching back to English, fake smile strained. </p><p>"Have you keys for a room? Neither do I. Not since someone blacklisted our cards from VIP access at the <em> Tsubaki </em> in Kyoto."</p><p>McCree swallowed. "Right. Checking in together, then? It won’t look strange?”</p><p>“I said I would find a new place. I found it. Discrete, digital check-in, all couples welcome,” said Arashi, refilling his sake. “Maintain that tension, and I will think your arm is metal.”</p><p>McCree hadn’t noticed the stiff angle of his guarded hold. He relaxed his arm and posture. Grip softened at Arashi’s hip. “That better?”</p><p>“Sufficient. Be fortunate no-one stalks from behind. Fifteen more minutes of acting and we may leave."</p><p>"Apologies in advance for touching you that long, partner."</p><p>Arashi shifted. His body eased into McCree’s hold. A second sip, tongue tip catching a stray drip from the rim. His free hand dropped from the table top, and McCree felt it land heavy on his own thigh. When Arashi spoke again, his voice was the barest murmur behind his cup. </p><p>"Convince our observer of this liaison, and we may leave faster."</p><p>Something in his touch, his tone, hit McCree with vivid deja vu — a subtle cheek chipping at professionalism, sly and oblique, like a sideways smiley on a message log. He felt the dare in the rest of Arashi's palm, felt the choice given by its transience; seconds later, the hand was gone. McCree dropped his inch of cigarette in the ashtray. Without another thought, he caught Arashi’s withdrawal. Skin on skin. A meeting of shape, texture, body heat. McCree burned at the contact, lit from his fingertips. He was sold out at once by his rampant heartbeat. This was no longer acting; this was natural.</p><p>McCree turned his head. Ducked down close. “Say the word,” he whispered, “and we'll go straight back to fifteen minutes.”</p><p>Arashi widened the angle of his legs. Leather tractioned McCree’s denim. His voice was steady, cool, betraying nothing. “It appears that we are both impatient to leave.”</p><p>A go-ahead. It was enough to tamp the guilt of McCree's unfair advantage, his one-sided realness in an unreal situation. McCree touched his face to the silk of Arashi’s hair. Brushed his nose behind Arashi's ear. Breathed in earth and evergreens. For a crazy second, McCree thought to kiss him, to mouth the triplex of metal studs, helix to lobe. Arashi seemed to read the intent. His hand escaped McCree’s to retuck long hair that needed no fixing. Knuckles grazed McCree’s bristled chin, nudging him back.</p><p>“We are in public,” Arashi warned as he coloured, pink prominent on pale skin. “Be decent.”</p><p>“Huh. Thought the whole point was to look a bit randy. After all, weren’t you the one to peg me for insatiable? Eight condoms in two hours?”</p><p>“Who is to say that you wore all eight?”</p><p>McCree’s mouth went dry at the suggestion. And there it was again: those stinking cute emojis, like punctuations of sass. “You…”</p><p>A close-lipped laugh hummed beside him and McCree couldn't tell fake from true, not that it mattered in that moment. At their ten, movement caught his eye. Blue Shirt received a food order from the server, then began tapping on a phone, no longer watchful. McCree’s left hand brushed into a belt loop and hooked to it, tugging once.</p><p> "I think," said McCree, "we oughta go."</p><p>"So soon."</p><p>"Yeah. Well. I’m willing to bet your stalker’s plenty convinced."</p><p>“Your talent for theater does impress,” Arashi murmured, putting down his drink. “Very well. Follow me.”</p><p>They left the izakaya. The door chime dulled behind city bustle and a passing bike bell. Outside, McCree relinquished his hold around Arashi's waist, but Arashi took him by his cuff, and then by his arm, as they fell in stride down the electroluminescent street. <em> It means nothing, </em> McCree mantraed in the one-block steer to the love hotel. <em> Nothing </em> were the duplicate VIP keycards minted at the check-in kiosk. <em> Nothing </em> was the mirror-image pair exiting the elevator at lobby level, arms around each other. <em> Nothing </em> was Arashi backing McCree into the rising elevator's wall to fit his cheek between McCree's jaw and neck.</p><p>Arashi whispered, "Cameras." Lights, action — unsaid but implied.</p><p>"Fuck," said McCree. "Fuck the cameras." Acting be fucking damned. McCree turned his head, cupped Arashi’s chin, and kissed him full on the mouth.</p><p>Arashi didn't startle. Didn't push away. Didn't punch him in the face. McCree almost wished he would, to enforce rationality, some semblance of a line. But Arashi did nothing. He was stiff and still. Until the moment he wasn't. And then McCree didn't need to hold close his face; Arashi moved, pinning McCree into the wall, his whole body returning the kiss. Together, their lips opened, and McCree could only lick and groan around Arashi's tongue, hot and wet and still sweet with sake.</p><p>"Fuck," he said again when the floor decelerated too soon, juddering, doors opening at a ding. Arashi's weight fell off him to lead them out. McCree was dizzy, bereft. He caught up to Arashi unlocking their room. Circled arms around Arashi's shoulders. Felt the other heartbeat knock into his palm.</p><p>"Is it just me," said McCree, "or is there something here?"</p><p>A rhetorical question, McCree decided, when he received no answer.</p><p>The door opened. They stumbled inside, a clumsy chimera of four legs, splitting apart. Arashi was all brisk action; shoes kicked off, changed to hotel slippers, and then he was off for the center of the suite, a hummingbird microdrone already deployed to sweep the space as though nothing happened. By the time McCree joined him in the sitting area, Arashi was reading a projected inspection report from the recalled drone hovering in front of his face. </p><p>"Clear," Arashi declared. </p><p>The drone deluminated its hard light wings and folded into an earbud case doppelganger. All roleplay. Like the room itself, styled to resemble a ship captain's quarters, complete with digital portholes, creaky floorboards, and a dynamic axis bed in simulated sway. Roleplay, like the players themselves, with McCree having forgotten his role, kiss-drunk.</p><p>McCree rubbed his mouth, then his face. He didn't look when Arashi sat down on the other half of the singular chaise lounge. A phone slid across the upholstery to bump McCree's leg. The screen prompted password input.</p><p>"The intelligence I promised. The password is your name."</p><p>Distracted, McCree's muscle memory spelled out <em> JESSE </em> before his brain caught up to the slip and he hit backspace. It was too late. Arashi turned away like a flinch, recoiling from what he may have glimpsed. <em> HUCKLEBERRY, </em> in contrast, hid nothing personal. The pseudonym unlocked the file.</p><p>"Whatever you saw me type," said McCree, "I'd appreciate it if you kept it to yourself."</p><p>"I saw nothing worth remembering."</p><p>McCree grimaced. "Course."</p><p>The password-protected folder held two dozen images and a text file, tap share enabled. McCree flicked through the collection on Arashi's device before initiating the copy. It was as Arashi had said last week. Multi-angle microdrone imagery mapped a second slave factory in early production at a Fukuoka industrial building made to look like a cannery from the outside. Shipment boxes mid-unload from supply trucks bore the Omnica Corp logo, identifiable even at the drone's cautious distance. Among the dark uniforms of yakuza underlings, a woman in a red pantsuit appeared to oversee the men. One photo featured her austere profile in full zoom. Hassaku Ayeka, the plaintext report confirmed. The remaining text detailed coordinates, security movements, and a preliminary threat assessment in Arashi's concise, signature style. </p><p>"My final contribution," said Arashi. "My involvement with Overwatch terminates once you strike."</p><p>McCree blinked, not expecting the sudden announcement. "Wait. What? But..."</p><p>"It has become too difficult for me to work with you."</p><p>"Overwatch? Or is it just me? Look, I’m sorry about the—" </p><p>Arashi cut him off, head shaking. "Not you. My freedom to move about and meet has become limited, as you surely noticed. The situation within the clan is at a turning point. Once our structure fully changes, settles…" He met McCree's eyes, looking grim and tired. "Your organization would not want to work with what I will become. It would be wiser to end our association."</p><p>McCree's phone flashed confirmation of completed file transfer. He closed the dialogue box and stared down at the blank, black screen, feeling as though a coffin had nailed shut with the informant's terminal work. The nails dug into his own chest, its ache blunted by denial. This was all too abrupt. Too early. </p><p>"Arashi. I said it last time. I'm gonna say it again. If you're in danger, or if you want to leave the yakuza, join Overwatch."</p><p>Arms crossed over Arashi's chest. "And again I will say: not possible. Not now or ever."</p><p>"Goddamn it. How can you even know that?" McCree despaired, his voice raising. "Join us. I'll do what I can to vouch for you."</p><p>Arashi laughed — a curt, mirthless sound. "You would not be so quick to vouch for me if you knew me," he said, smiling askance.</p><p>"Then let me know you," said McCree. </p><p>He had meant only to give back Arashi's phone; McCree had the slim device extended to the other side of the chaise, but the lure of Arashi's reaching fingers had him dropping it to grasp the hand instead, propriety all forgotten. Instinct keened for Arashi's warm skin under his lips again. A kiss, a taste; he would settle even for a scent. But the other man was strong, lock-limbed. Knuckles curled white around McCree's own.</p><p>"You play a dangerous game," Arashi whispered.</p><p>"Takes two to play one, partner. No cameras. No other people here. Just us. You in?"</p><p>"Is this still about Overwatch," asked Arashi, "or is this about something else?"</p><p>McCree swallowed empty air. "Both. More."</p><p>"The attraction influences your judgement."</p><p>"Can you blame me?" McCree managed in admission. "When you've kissed me in a way that definitely wasn't just for the cameras."</p><p>Arashi tugged. McCree found his hand pulled past midpoint and under Arashi's face instead, fingers plied apart, palm splayed for study. Slow and careful, Arashi thumbed his callouses. Dipped along each parabolic web. Tracked his thenar lifeline with such purpose as though to divine for them a future. A pink tongue dashed across Arashi's bottom lip. He drew up McCree's fingertips and kissed the middle three.</p><p>Then, he opened his mouth and sucked.</p><p>McCree made an embarrassing noise deep in his throat. </p><p>
  <em> "Fuck." </em>
</p><p>That bold tongue again — lapping past the first joint, teasing at the second, winding around him like it might be tasting something else. Arashi looked up. Didn't look away as he withdrew bit by bit through steady suction, finishing with a pressurized <em> pop. </em></p><p>"You mean this kind of kiss?" Arashi asked, letting him go.</p><p>In a daze, McCree watched his fingers break strings of spit as they split.</p><p>"No. Not even close. Try again." </p><p>McCree crowded into him, on top of him. They met again, open-mouthed, tongues and teeth, a fervid follow-up of the too-brief kiss from the elevator. No, more than that — this was a culmination. A day’s worth of fake flirting all becoming real in hindsight, speed rewind freeze-framed at the moment it started: one blindsiding side-smiley shot to the heart. Now, in this room, there was no dissimulation for an evidence trail, their intents no longer excusable for anything but want. McCree thrilled at the matched hunger, the reciprocity, knowing at last he wasn't alone in going crazy.</p><p>Arashi raised his hips off the lounger. McCree broke away from his mouth to gasp. They were both hard. Another deliberate grind, and Arashi's hand slid between them, palm up, to feel through McCree's jeans.</p><p>"Ahhh, <em> fuck. </em> You do keep doin’ that and I'll—"</p><p>"You will fuck me?" Arashi's other hand pulled McCree down to kiss him again.</p><p>"God," McCree mumbled into Arashi's mouth, relishing the friction but fighting to not come in his pants. "So eager to take it."</p><p>Arashi's strokes paused long enough to undo the button and unzip the fly. "Make it count, Huckleberry-san. It is your only chance."</p><p>That fucking pseudonym again. The syllables jarred between his ears like foreign language. McCree pulled up to half-plank and looked at him, wondering how much of them was still playing pretend.</p><p>"You saw me type my name. Say it for me."</p><p>"This is just sex," replied Arashi, stilling. "Do not expect us to know each other."</p><p>"I don't want it to be our only chance. I want it to be just the first."</p><p>Knees bent to wedge up into McCree's abdomen, forcing distance. "I told you. I cannot leave. Nothing can happen after. Within the yakuza, I am already dead."</p><p>McCree backed up to a hunching kneel as he rubbed spit off his chin. "You… you don't mean that." </p><p>But Arashi wouldn't look at him. Wouldn't affirm nor deny. He was also sitting up now, legs sweeping off the side of the seat, the fall of his hair shielding his face. </p><p>"Fucking hell," McCree continued, eyes wide, "you <em> do </em> mean it. What kind of insane cult are you in, that you can't get out? Even when it'll kill you."</p><p>"You could never understand."</p><p>"Betcha you're goddamn wrong 'bout that," McCree growled. "You think you're the only woe-is-me gangster who's too deep in murky morality, stuck on a leash, deadlocked by his boss. Believe me, partner. That life, I've lived it. And I made my own damn decision to live a different one. The chance presented and I took it. This is your chance now, on a silver platter."</p><p>"It is no wonder you joined Overwatch. Your saviour complex — you wear it like a badge. We differ. I am not that kind of hero."</p><p>The words disparaged, but his tone was quiet, almost desolate. The pieces clicked: Arashi yearned the out. More chains must shackle than the one called loyalty, their locks as hidden away as Arashi's real name.</p><p>McCree stood, felt his jeans gape, and rezipped the open fly. He kneaded his forehead, quelling all kinds of frustration. </p><p>"I can't. I can't sleep with you only to… only to bury you. A memory of you." He moved in front of Arashi, swept long hair behind each ear. So little time left to memorize what little was visible of him. "Your cult leader of a boss. Fuck him. Fuck whatever shitty position he's put you in. Whatever collateral he's got hanging over your head."</p><p>At that, Arashi looked up. A wan smile waxed.</p><p>"With that vitriol, I hope you and he never meet."</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>The third time they met at a love hotel was in Hanamura.</p><p>Except it wasn't Hanamura, or anywhere else in Japan. McCree only knew that it was a beach, all turquoise and white, a world away from the blaring sirens and gunfire of where he had been. Where had he been? This, here, was Bali. Maui. Maldives. He had drifted off, hat brim half over his face, on a gauze-draped daybed while listening to seagulls and surf, breathing in the sand and salt. Now, the birds were changing tune with the tide. Their voices pitched off-colour to chorus nursery rhyme refrains about huckleberries waking up. Something bothered his shoulder — a clawed creepy-crawly beached by the sea. A hermit crab, maybe, shelled in a pinecone, carrying along a woody scent of forest. The strange crustacean crawled to his neck, to his head, budged off his hat. McCree swatted once, twice, but it clawed harder, grew padded paws, strong as a wolf's.</p><p>
  <em> "... Jesse! Wake up!" </em>
</p><p>McCree opened his eyes, blinked through the bright haze. He smiled. </p><p>"Mornin', love. Didn't think you'd show."</p><p>Arashi was above him, silhouetted by sunlit curtains. McCree reached for him. He missed, catching only air. He squinted. There were two Arashis, their twin faces frowning.</p><p>"You are drunk," they said.</p><p>"Drugged, maybe. Not drunk," McCree corrected. An important distinction, he thought. Not his own doing. "Painkillers. Came in a drip. Morphine? Dunno…"</p><p>There were hands over his body, fumbling over his clothes. McCree chuckled, half delighted, half terribly rueful. "Much as I like where this is headed, I can't feel my dick right now."</p><p>The hands paused over the right side of his ribs. Arashi's touch turned tentative, tender. "You are injured. Bleeding."</p><p>"It's what the bandages are for, 'suppose."</p><p>"You should be with your medics. Not here. I saw the news. The strike was only hours ago. A press conference began when I saw your message." </p><p>"Dang. PR quick on the trigger. Who's the lucky bastard taking the credit?"</p><p>McCree felt fingers in his hair. He closed his eyes again, basking in the touch and Arashi's voice.</p><p>"I saw mere minutes,” said Arashi. “But, a commander. Handsome, blond one."</p><p>McCree took a moment to process the comment. "Huh. I'd be jealous, y'know. If you meant somebody else. But s'alright. Everyone gets the hots for the strike commander at some point. And I mean everyone. Definition of Dilf, with a capital D. No, actually, full capslock DILF. Oughta get that on a big belt buckle for him. Hah! Not that I've seen Jack Morrison's dilfy D, mind, but I can imagine…"</p><p>Arashi lightly pulled his hair.</p><p>"But he don't hold a candle, sweetheart. I usually like my guys more…" His eyes flickered open to appraise the view. "... Pretty."</p><p>"Charming."</p><p>The Arashis’ faces merged like consolidating Venn circles, and then there was left only one of him. "Shucks. I liked looking at both of you," he mourned out loud. "Hey, you do karate or something? The uniform’s spankin'."</p><p>Arashi looked down at his clothes. "Yes, but this... It is for archery."</p><p>"Archery. An archer. It suits you." McCree grinned. "Look at you! Givin' <em> answers. </em> At this rate I'll have your bank security questions in the bag. Wait. Aww, shit onna stick. I forgot, didn't I? Alright, ham-’n’-pineapple-pizza. Just in case this is a dream. And don't you roll your eyes. Lemme make it clear that Sojourn came up with that one, the crazy Canadian. I mean, do I look like anything other than a barbecue Buffalo chicken kind of guy?"</p><p>"... No."</p><p>McCree sighed, contented. "Thank you."</p><p>"You need to go back, now. You are hurt. We are not supposed to be meeting again."</p><p>"And you showed up anyway. That's gotta mean something, right? I'll be back to the team in a jiffy anyhow. Docs won't even know I'm gone. I got a transport and a pilot waiting on the roof of this place. Hey, don't look at me like that. I was careful! The ship's got an invis field and Fio's a pal. An easy bribe, with my canteen pass and a real tearjerker of a story about how I fell in love in two weeks in Japan. About how I gotta go see the guy one last time to confess my affections before I leave for HQ next morning. Et cetera, et cetera. Don't worry. Fio's got her audiobooks and her Hearthstone, so you can stop lookin' all scandalized. She promised to come get me if I went to the full time, but I don't expect..." McCree scratched his head. "Er, what time is it, exactly?"</p><p>Arashi turned to peer through a part in the drapes. "Eleven thirty-two, PM."</p><p>"Fuck, you're <em> really </em>late." McCree tried to sit up, but his side smarted, giving out. He was no doubt due for a proper dose this long away from the IV. "We got, what, twenty-eight minutes left? Yeah. Can you turn off just the gulls for me? God, that's starting to grate."</p><p>Arashi helped McCree up to sit in the bed, supporting his body with a stack of pillows to the headboard. Seagulls muted, leaving only soft waves. Arashi joined him back on the bed, at his side, where reality was a blur beyond their square, gossamer sanctum. In here, McCree could still make-believe that they were secluded far across the world, carefree.</p><p>He found Arashi's hand. Closed his eyes. "Dunno 'bout you, but… something here feels real. Doesn't seem right to end so sudden. Couldn't leave you behind without something of mine." He nudged Arashi's palm open, passed to him a flat, metal disk not much bigger than a 500 yen coin. "It doesn't have a name yet. Prototype tech from Medical Engineering. Been sanctioned for testing in combat since 'bout a month ago. A first-issue. Got some sort of nanoweave, so it sticks to textiles on triple-tap. I wear it under my vest, left pec, over the heart."</p><p>McCree felt Arashi turning it over, examining the unmarked metal. "What does it do?"</p><p>"Most of the time, prolly nothing. But theory goes that it'll save you. Even from brink of death. Get knocked out, flatlined, it kicks into action. Diagnostics. Defibrillation. Satellite signaling. HQ gets an SOS ping from anywhere in the world. Guaranteed pickup, emergency priority. I didn't need it today. Snuck it off right before the gurney showed up. I can requisition another somehow. This one's yours now."</p><p>Arashi was quiet. A minute passed, rhythmed by breath and ocean swell. McCree bit his lip, then peeked left. Arashi was still, staring at the device in his hand, lost in his head with the focus of one visualizing a gambit of grandmaster chess.</p><p>"I really hope to god," McCree said slowly, "that you'll never need it. But promise me, please, that you'll use it."</p><p>Arashi snapped back to the present, the metal piece clutched tight in his fist. "I… It will be used. I promise."</p><p>"Yeah, good..." McCree sank deeper into the memory foam, residual tension slipping like washed sand. "Was worried you wouldn’t want it. What with all the ‘never gonna join Overwatch’ you were spouting to your deathbed. Reckoned that if you really died, your rules could stand to get a rewrite. And we could… start again. Introduce ourselves properly. If you want. And y’know what? You’d fit. You keep saying you're some sort of villain. It ain't true. What you've done for Overwatch, for those omnics, risking yourself over and over — you're a hero here, too. I'll remember. Even if those press conferences never give a mention. Even if we don't meet again. Even if you never—"</p><p>"Jesse. Stop talking."</p><p>A featherlight finger kissed his mouth, succeeded by lips and a storm of sentiment. McCree lost his train of thought. In that moment, he believed. They would weather out the worst. </p><p>Someday.</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>The first time Agent McCree met Agent Shimada one-on-one was in Geneva.</p><p>It was not for a lack of opportunity that it took weeks to approach him. McCree knew where the man ate and slept, where he trained and did his target practice. Where he scaled gripless glass to hide among heliotropic suntiles and satellite receivers on the roof every cloudless sunset. All of Overwatch talked. Rumours were aplenty. Few were true. The thriving grapevine kept McCree in the loop, if not in direct company. McCree reasoned his own avoidance as courtesy at best, self-indulgent heartache at worst — senseless but satiating in a most bitter way.</p><p>McCree had orders today. His security clearance ushered him underground, beneath the sky-mirrored circle of HQ's central complex, plummeting down a personnel-only elevator shaft to its subterranean belly. The elevator holoscreen only numbered the floors, but McCree knew each by name. B-1 was Maintenance. B-3, Provisions. B-8, Genetic Research. His descent halted at B-10. Doors opened to a sterile, cement corridor. Blackwatch greeted dank and grey, like trepidation.</p><p>The rap of boot soles and heel spurs echoed through the empty stretch. He stopped outside the fifth door, right side. A retina scan greenlit his access. McCree entered the Blackwatch armoury to the sight of the other agent already inside.</p><p>McCree cleared his throat, subduing the lump that choked there.</p><p>"Shimada."</p><p>The agent stood before an open weapons locker. At McCree's voice he turned. A carbon fibre compound bow lowered from his examination.</p><p>"Agent McCree."</p><p>"You know my name," McCree commented. "Colour me flattered."</p><p>"Lacroix said to expect you."</p><p>"Guess you've heard then. We're partners for your first mission."</p><p>"Yes." The bow turned over in his hands. A finger traced the taut cable, testing tension. "Blackwatch stocks unconventional weaponry. This one is well made."</p><p>"Something for everyone in here," said McCree. He walked over to an adjacent locker, opening it to look inside at the middle row of revolvers. One spot glared vacant, its past occupant housed now at his hip. McCree skimmed his glove over another six-chamber side loader, then lifted it from its stand to compare heft and grip. "Settled on yours, did you?"</p><p>Arms slackened. The compound bow returned to hang inside the locker between a recurve and a crossbow. </p><p>"No. I was only thinking. Few people still use bows this century. Yet deadly they can be, in the right hands. And in the wrong ones."</p><p>"Still a future for anachronisms, maybe," replied McCree, a thumb over the revolver's manual hammer. "Even when it comes to guns."</p><p>"Bows or guns, I have talent for neither."</p><p>The locker of varied bows and crossbows latched shut with a clang. Footsteps beat around the armoury as other hinges squeaked open and closed. By and by, the movements stopped. McCree glanced over to see a long sword draw from a scabbard. Three feet of black steel inlaid with red grooves of shocktech. A two-handed wield from a martensitic hilt.</p><p>"You have a taste for the old-fashioned, Shimada."</p><p>The sword cleft a swift arc, trailing fine streaks of laser red. Three perpendicular criss-cross slashes, slowing on the endswing, and then the blade stilled to balance weightless across two disparate palms — bio and bionic. </p><p>"I would argue this katana is more advanced than your firearms. It suits me." The sword sucked back into its sheath and set down on a bench. A passing score. "And call me Genji, please. I have no more ties to my family name."</p><p>"Genji, then. Glad to finally make your acquaintance."</p><p><em> "Yoroshiku onegaishimasu," </em> Genji returned, polite.</p><p>Mismatched hands rifled again through the case of edged weapons. A similar, short sword unclipped, unsheathed, and flourished expertly as though whittling ribbons of air. Clearly satisfied with the lighter one as well, Genji laid it beside the katana. He then straightened and turned to McCree, attention abruptly keen.</p><p>"McCree-san. It surprises me that we have not been introduced earlier. Doctor Zeigler mentioned to me something unusual, and it has been on my mind. You were my first medbay visitor, four months ago, after my rescue."</p><p>"What can I say. I'm a curious fellow."</p><p>"Yes. And curiously not curious once I had become conscious."</p><p>"Got bored waiting, I guess. Not sure what else you're hoping to hear."</p><p>"I would like to hear why your shadow appears everywhere I look," said Genji, moving closer, the metal of his feet clacking sharp on the floor. "The medbay visit. A secret assignment in Japan prior to Operation Daikon. An unofficial, three-hour detour in Hanamura the night before I almost died. The Overwatch-manufacture reviver they found on my chest."</p><p>Genji's eyes pinned. Ocular implants lit crimson as though to glean proof via cybernetic infrared. Synthetics aside, the clear resemblance was a punch to the gut. Genji’s headgear didn’t hide the telltale topography of his eyes and brows; up close, the look was so familiar that McCree could tempt himself into believing he stood before another man. Even learning the truth hadn't been enough to prepare him. Not for this vis-à-vis. Hereditary irony, McCree thought. He had been played. A calculated sleight of hand, a Shimada for a Shimada, that left McCree attached to the wrong one. A two-inch diameter promise kept intact by a cunning trade that made tails out of heads.</p><p>McCree looked away to shelve the spare revolver. He shrugged.</p><p>"You've done some digging. But I tell ya, these things are just coincidence. I have less part in you being here than you think."</p><p>"I only wish to thank—"</p><p>"Don't. Don't thank me," McCree blurted, shaking his head. "Credit where it’s due. Angela, the nurses, the engineers, the physios. They worked the impossible with you. Wasn't anything I did to get you on your feet. The person who planted that lifeline prolly knew you. Cared enough, in their way. It wasn't me."</p><p>Genji appeared unconvinced. But the glow of his eyes faded, red irises reverting pupil-black. Titanium fingers reached and dithered, then landed gentle, birdlike, on McCree's shoulder.</p><p>"With time, I hope we can speak more freely to each other, McCree-san."</p><p>McCree eked a grin despite the ache. Wounds would heal; his new teammate was living proof.</p><p>"With time, you'll be beggin' me to shut up. Now go get your ninja knives. Spar you before the debrief, partner."</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>The fourth time they meet at a love hotel is in Tokyo.</p><p>Midnight downpour in the capital carries inside the tang of gutter patina, the chill of early spring. It clings, weighing the wrap around McCree's shoulders, squeaking his steps over the hotel's waxed tile. A half-day, transpacific haul from the desert, McCree is out of his element, out of luck. Tokyo's damp regresses his left arm. Prone to bad barometrics, the prosthetic synapse pains as though young and newly neurolinked. </p><p>At the end of the hall, McCree pauses. He dips his head. Corralled rainwater swashes and drips from his hat's concave brim as he enters four digits to a door panel. In the long, empty second of waiting, he craves his phone to re-read for the hundredth time the well-navigated message that gives the short code, just to be sure. But the compulsion is overkill; the lock clicks. The handle unsticks. McCree depresses it and enters.</p><p>The suite transports him somewhere vaguely known. Trappings of the Old West welcome in caricature. The modulated air is arid, greasewood-sweet. Double batwing doors fence the dark entryway from the kerosene-orange room proper. A rockabilly ditty from the soundtrack of <em> Six Gun Killer </em> drifts from somewhere on the other side, tinny and lo-fi monophonic. The attention to detail charms. McCree can't help but grin. </p><p>Water brushes off his hat. More drops shake off the tied bioplastic bag plumb in his hand. Thumb tucked to his belt, McCree pushes past the mock saloon doors.</p><p>He hears the bowstring pull before he sees it — a near inaudible bass to banjo twang. McCree curls his fingers over his holster but doesn't draw. He puts the bag down at the bar. Settles onto a wooden barstool. He sighs.</p><p>"Look. Just 'cause you didn't leave your shoes at the door this time doesn't mean I don't know you're here."</p><p>The bowstring creaks, tightening. McCree feels a prod at his scapula, arrowhead-sharp. </p><p>"The password," a voice rumbles from his six.</p><p>"Gettin' to that. Hold your horses. If this is how you greet every scheduled guest, I pity your hookups." McCree mutters, untying the bag. "Thought you would've noticed the scent by now. Took a bit of a beating, it did, between here and Haneda. Best I could do with airport grub."</p><p>The bag opens to an individual-serving pizza box. McCree flips open the squashed, soggy lid. Pink ham and yellow pineapple smatter cold mayo-mozzarella circumferenced by too much crust. He winces. Definitely not his flavour, even on a good day. </p><p>"In my defense," says McCree, "the picture on the vending machine looked a lot better."</p><p>He feels the bow drop. Hears the arrow unnock. A breath fleets the back of his neck. A second later, the closeness is gone.</p><p>"Pathetic," the voice comments, amused. "If this is how you cater meetings, I pity your dates."</p><p>"Yeah. Think about that often, do ya?"</p><p>McCree swivels on the stool. The other man uncovers in latitudes under his brim: high-tops scored with wear, loose utility pants, a zipped black jacket sporting a funnel neck. His beard is short and neat. Hair is stylishly undercut, top-knotted. His face is older, contours deeper, harsher, but not all of it is unfamiliar. The silver bridge piercings are new. The dark, narrow eyes prove changeless. Endless. </p><p>McCree tips his hat, rote bravado lurching forth to wayside his daunt.</p><p>"Long time no see, Arashi."</p><p>"It has been sixteen years since I used that name. You know my real one by now."</p><p>"Didn't know what you'd prefer. Thought I'd play it safe, let you make the call."</p><p>The archer looks away, bow laying down across a cards table. "Hanzo will suffice."</p><p>"Hanzo. Alright." McCree strips off his leather glove and holds out his right hand. "Jesse McCree. But I suppose you knew that too."</p><p>Hanzo glances down between them as though surprised. Then, the handshake closes. Hanzo's grip is firm, warm, long overdue.</p><p>"You were difficult to miss. So many appearances beside your commander around the Blackwatch controversy, without your callsign," says Hanzo, letting go. "What happened to Huckleberry?"</p><p>The reference to Reyes and Blackwatch doesn't irk as it often does. Hanzo's imprint on him derails. McCree scratches his beard, his vacant hand at a loss for anything better to do. "I did another op or two with it after Daikon. And then 'Huckleberry' retired. It didn't feel like me anymore. Didn't care to go anon again."</p><p>"To detriment, I assume. You have made enemies around the world."</p><p>"Someone's keeping tabs."</p><p>"It became necessary," Hanzo says with a pointed look, sitting down beside him at the fake bar. "Particularly when you trailed too close."</p><p>McCree raises a metal finger in protest. "I did nothin' of the sort."</p><p>Hanzo's gaze flicks to the cyberware, but he presses on, unflapped. "It was you at the ramen stand. The one in Hanamura, outside Shimada Castle. I saw the unfortunate aftermath."</p><p>"Best ramen in the country. Heck, the world, for that matter. If you've had the tonkotsu then you know what I mean. Muggers weren't gonna spoil that for me."</p><p>"In Japan alone, Rikimaru franchises one hundred locations. Yet you return only to the one. <em> Ten times </em> in the last three years."</p><p>"Jesus," McCree grumbles. "How many tabs have you got?"</p><p>"Enough to know. Arashi would not have survived long without such thoroughness."</p><p>"I remember. God. Next, you'll be telling me 'bout my post-ramen bowel movements. Vital intel gathered from your spy network of singing bidets."</p><p>Hanzo cracks a chuckle. McCree looks away before his own face does something stupid. The shock of seeing the ex-informant again does not seem to wane with talk; it only intensifies. Sixteen-year-old latent feelings with nowhere to go but spill, uncasked ripe, loosed by a single laugh. McCree groans inside his head. A goner, he is. Right from the get-go. Going to hell and heaven both.</p><p>Their ribbing tangent is short-lived, however. Lightning lashes outside, bringing heavy rain and thunder. The moment severs. Hanzo falters, becoming quiet, listening. Rainfall raps glass, louder than the soundtrack croon about a long-lost love.</p><p>"You have not yet asked why I requested to meet you, after so long," says Hanzo.</p><p>"I had my hunches. Trusted you to not shoot me on sight."</p><p>"For that alone, you are too trusting."</p><p>"Says the guy who shook my hand without really knowing why I agreed to come here."</p><p>"You kept the old SIM card," Hanzo explains simply. "Very sentimental. You do not change at all, Jesse."</p><p>"And you remembered the number, <em> Hanzo," </em> McCree counters. "Sixteen years is a real long time for that."</p><p>Hanzo appears to run out of justification. He shifts, then unbuttons a jacket pocket to take out a small holopad. The screen flicks on, revealing a newscast paused mid-stream, its frozen ticker in Japanese. Hanzo puts the holo on the counter between them, by the cold pizza. </p><p>McCree doesn't need him to tap play to recognize the still. The same footage loops on every screen in every language in the airports, the plane, even the hovercab to the hotel: Null Sector's attack on Paris less than forty-eight hours ago, subverted in a valiant defense by active-duty Overwatch agents not seen in years. Hanzo's holovid is paused at a shot of the collapsed wreck of a Titan-class omnic, the candid figures of three agents bright in the foreground, untouched by age — Tracer, Echo, Genji.</p><p>"This is a war," Hanzo states, grim. "Brazilian news also now reports a Null Sector capital ship over the South Atlantic Ocean. The world is changing. It is my time to pick a side."</p><p>McCree’s focus drifts from the screen to the pizza box. The lid is still open, wafting its strange sweetness. A reminder, of sorts, of an aim.</p><p>"Sorry if this disappoints, but I'm not here for Overwatch," says McCree. "I'm not their recruiter. The opposite would be truer." </p><p>Hanzo fixes him with a confused frown. "You were once so adamant that I join."</p><p>"Well, I think you were right not to. Long story, but I was lucky to have high-tailed it before shit really hit the fan. Your brother was the same. Personally, I'm not keen on going back."</p><p>At Genji's mention, Hanzo glances back at the cyborg's image on the holo. "He came to see me. Two weeks ago. For two weeks I have the knowledge that he lives. For too many years before that I feared I had failed. That he was saved means I owe Overwatch more than my own life."</p><p>"But… With your reach, you could've found out about Genji earlier, couldn't you? If you wanted to."</p><p>"I did not want to," Hanzo admits, stiffening as though the open confession humiliates. "His identity was never public. 'Sparrow.' Obvious now, but I never truly looked, not wanting to discover the worst." He turns to McCree, at once apprehensive. "Did you ever tell him…"</p><p>"No. None of it. Wasn't my story to tell."</p><p>Hanzo is silent. The storm continues to beat, rattling windows, shaking the flimsy illusion of the desert saloon. A minute later, Hanzo reaches for the pizza box, pulling it closer. A congealed quarter-slice extricates. He raises it, then bites off the tip.</p><p>"That looks…" McCree swallows. "Gross."</p><p>Hanzo finishes the mouthful before he speaks. </p><p>"Tell me. What are you here for, then, if not for Overwatch?"</p><p>McCree doesn't want to say it. It had all sounded better in his head during the sleepless flight, without audience. He watches Hanzo take another bite. And then another. His face remains impassive. No rapt attention for McCree's pending answer. No opinion one way or the other about the food. When the slice vanishes, crust included, he reaches for a second. </p><p>"Hanzo. You don't have to—"</p><p>"I want to." The voice edges with warning.</p><p>McCree lets him eat.</p><p>The box empties in quarters. Somewhere through Hanzo’s fourth and last piece, McCree finds his nerve. He fidgets, then hedges, “Would it be all that bad if I said my reasons are entirely selfish?”</p><p>Chewing slows — the only indication Hanzo has heard. The last bit of crust becomes scant crumbs, is chased by several gulps from an insulated bottle unclipped from his side. Hands and mouth wipe on damp napkins, finger by finger, lip after lip. Finished at last, Hanzo stops. An inscrutable look slants to McCree. Eyes and steel barbells catch light, gleam tetradic. </p><p>“I think you are incapable of being ‘entirely selfish,’” Hanzo replies.</p><p>The archer stands, picking up his bow. He walks away, crosses the room, and begins to climb a narrow, curving stair to the suite's second level.</p><p>“Hey, wait just a sec! What are you—”</p><p>“Come. I have something to show you,” Hanzo calls, clarifying nothing. His shoes vault out of sight.</p><p>McCree sits, stunned. He thinks. It hasn't escaped his notice that the saloon room has no bed. One must exist in the loft. McCree follows, wary, footsteps slow, letting each stair thud and announce his ascent. The next floor is as he thought: a bedroom, slatted closet door ajar, Navajo-diamond duvet mussed on a wagon wheel bed. Hanzo stands before a balcony door, looking out its small square window at the storming pitch.</p><p>"Hey, um. You mighta misunderstood when I said... It's a bit quick, dontcha think? I wasn't meaning that..."</p><p>Hanzo opens the door. The room gusts to the patter of rain. Bow and quiver backpack swing and clatter together across his back.</p><p>“Keep up, Jesse,” he says, disappearing into the night.</p><p>"Hanzo!"</p><p>McCree chases, hand clutched over the crown of his hat, tilting against the wind. He slams the door shut behind him, peering around the small balcony. No-one. Nothing. Stomach clenching with panic, he rushes to the railing and looks down. Some thirty stories below, the street is empty — no vehicles, no pedestrians, no signs of the missing man — the city asleep but for neon-glittered deluge. A sound catches his notice: not storm, but tempoed movement. Behind. Above. He turns. Looks up. A shadow, ten feet or so above the door's square of light. Ephemeral, it slinks to egress, summit found at the hotel's roof.</p><p>McCree squints up, blinking water from his eyes, baffled.</p><p>"Goddamn <em> ninjas..." </em></p><p>He is assessing the impossibility of the vertical wall when the cable drops. The loose end tumbles and pools on the balcony floor. The line shakes once, its meaning unmistakable. McCree puffs a miffed breath. Feeling rather like his compliance is being taken for granted, he opens the door to the bedroom long enough to toss his hat inside for safekeeping before moving to begrudgingly comply. </p><p>He climbs. His jaw clenches hard. The cold ache in his left arm sharpens each pull even as the cybernetics auto-adapt to strain and gravity. A few feet from the top, the neurolink excruciates as though primed to tear. McCree gasps — the arm goes slack; nociceptive feedback has activated the synaptic failsafe, resetting the circuit. He hangs on, one vice grip on the cable, feet flat to the sluicing wall face. A pretty godawful night for this, he thinks. He fancies giving in, sliding down, getting the hell indoors to tend his arm. A nice thought, albeit craven. Hanzo's words still taunt: <em> keep up. </em></p><p>The cable tugs, rising inch by inch. His heels skid, dig, step, resuming a slow, upwards pace with assistance. McCree completes the distance to the top. He throws elbows across the roof edge, scrambles up to the solid, flat surface. Hanzo is there, drenched green and blue under a colossal Nano Cola billboard. The cable loops neat circles in his hands and stores away into a backpack compartment.</p><p>"You are in poorer shape than I expected," Hanzo comments.</p><p>"Not winded. Just aching," McCree grits. "It's the damn arm. Due for a tuning. Now what in the world do you need to show me up here?"</p><p>"I am sorry... I did not know you would hurt."</p><p>The apology mollifies like salve. McCree rubs the prosthetic socket. The pain begins to dull.  "I'll survive. Let's get to it before that changes and we become lightning rods. I'm kinda conductive."</p><p>Footsteps splash to his side. Hanzo's fingers hitch to the bend of his good elbow and coaxes McCree to walk with him. Hanzo leads him to the opposite, darker side of the roof. They stop, shoulder to shoulder. Tokyo dazzles around them, innumerable jeweled trunks growing out of blackness, reaching to the sky's pour. Here, a thought wisps; an old memory flits, fuzzes in McCree's mind like moth wings. He has been here before. Too long ago. Not this spot, this building, or even this city. But the touch at his elbow, at his side, stirs something the heart remembers. </p><p>Hanzo points ahead to a plain office building on the next street. "There is no updated signage, but this complex was sold last month to a foreign holding company. One that I traced to a much larger parent. Vishkar Corporation." He looks to McCree as if awaiting a reaction. "Do you not think it strange? That the wealthiest megacorp in the world would choose this location when they can have the best. Already they occupy one of the tallest skyscrapers in the business core."</p><p>Disappointment bubbles. McCree quashes the feeling for now, confused about where this talk of Vishkar is going. "Yeah. Guess that is strange. But I don't really get it. Is this all you wanted me to see?"</p><p>"You will see."</p><p>The bow unslings from Hanzo's back. He selects an arrow from his quiver. Nocks. Draws. Aims straight at the office building. The arrow looses. McCree loses sight of it almost instantly as it hurtles into darkness.</p><p>"Uh, Hanzo. I don't know what your beef is with Vishkar, but that ain't exactly..." </p><p>McCree shivers, feeling Hanzo touch his right ear. A device slots around the curved shell like an earpiece. Hanzo taps once. McCree hears it blip, power on. His right eyesight suddenly tints blue with night vision from a monocular visor. </p><p>"Look now," says Hanzo.</p><p>Where there was only indistinct shadow, the visor sharpens the city in bluescale. The Vishkar building, however, contrasts. Stationary silhouettes form a crimson swarm at its middle, within a sphere of concentric pulses visible to the scanner. McCree squints. His mouth falls open.</p><p>"Mother of god. These are all..."</p><p>"Nullifiers," Hanzo confirms, his voice dour. "Null Sector is already here in Tokyo. Ten floors of assembled infantry. Dormant now, but poised to strike."</p><p>"But... how? This many units, they would've needed truckloads, entire ships! People would've noticed."</p><p>"There is another way. Vishkar holds exclusive patents in teleporter technology. The dropships in Paris, the capital ship off Brazil — they are only spectacles, sowing fear. Imagine how many other places may already be infiltrated from within, around the globe." </p><p>Understanding sinks as the sonic sphere dissipates, disappearing the omnic troopers. McCree taps off the visor projection and removes it from his face. The city is again dark, peaceful, wholly unsuspecting of its threat. McCree feels Hanzo's hands take back the device. Fingertips tarry, skirt over skin. Without thinking, McCree clasps around them, then merges them palm to palm. Hanzo doesn't tense, doesn't shirk away. They stand linked together on the roof. Burgeoning war sprawls before them, invisible.</p><p>Beside him, Hanzo murmurs, "Can you still say you will be selfish when the world has come to this? I cannot do this alone, Jesse."</p><p>The candor of his voice lays McCree equally bare. He squeezes Hanzo's hand, drawing courage. "You know… I've been on my own for ages. Started getting lonely, few years back. Your scattershot message — it put an idea in my head. A silly one. Selfish. I came here wanting to ask you to join me. It didn't have to be one side or the other, Overwatch versus the great evils — Null Sector, Vishkar, whoever else is causing this war. There could be another side, I thought, maybe. Ours. Just us two. Vigilante partners, or somethin'. Having each other's backs. But now, I…" He chews his lip, knowing the futility. Already the idea sounds absurd. An inconceivable fantasy in his own ears. "I can see the facts. And, fuck, this thing is too big for two people. Overwatch needs to know. They need you more than I do."</p><p>"And who do you think needs you?" Hanzo says. The hand squeezes back. "We go to Overwatch together. Or I would rather not go at all."</p><p>"Hanzo, you're... That really ain't fair. When you say it like that... It's not even a choice."</p><p>"No. You are wrong. There is always a choice. You know mine."</p><p>"To be honest, I'm not certain I do."</p><p>Hanzo's hand slips away. The loss gapes. Stings. An old, forgotten wound slit open. Then, Hanzo is there in full, returned, the sure shape and weight of him joining them chest to chest. His rain-damp face consoles at McCree's neck; the icy dot of his piercing pricks, like sedative. McCree shudders. Hanzo secures him, arms around his torso, no room left between them for indecision or doubt. McCree forgets everything else in that moment and anchors on, tight as a lifeline.</p><p>"Is it just me," McCree whispers, "or is there still something here?"</p><p>Lips tickle across his skin with Hanzo's answer. "It is not just you."</p><p>McCree closes his eyes. He smiles to the scent of cedars. </p><p>"Good. Don't want to be alone in this."</p><p>Hanzo unwraps from him. He steps back, still close, within reach. One arm stays bridged — a steady palm to McCree's chest. Left pec, over the heart. </p><p>"We won't be."</p>
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